


(Something Like) Love and Pasta

by a_case_for_wonder



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Cooking, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, That's pretty much the run of it folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-02-04 14:46:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12773286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_case_for_wonder/pseuds/a_case_for_wonder
Summary: "Andrew, what the fuck is all this?" Neil asked.“It’s food, Neil.” Andrew deadpanned, glancing back the piles of groceries stacked on the counter, half in and out of their plastic bags. “Consumed at mealtimes, necessary for survival, perhaps you’ve heard of it?”ORIt's Andrew's last Spring Break at PSU, and he decides he and Neil should learn to cook.





	(Something Like) Love and Pasta

**Author's Note:**

> Do I have other writing I should be working on? Oh, yeah. Instead, I present 3,500 words of overused italics and Andrew and Neil learning to cook together, because that is what my heart wanted. Enjoy!

“Andrew, what the fuck is this?” 

Neil’s voice shot across the kitchen from the vicinity of the stairwell. Andrew turned to look at him. Neil was slouched in the doorway, still in his pajamas, hair ridiculously sleep-tousled, faint red lines from the sheets still evident against his scarred cheeks. Andrew himself was fully dressed, since he had been up for hours. Neil had woken when he’d gotten up, of course. He always did. But Andrew had merely passed his hand lightly over Neil’s face and shoulder in a gesture that had come to mean ‘stay, it’s all right.’ 

Neil had fallen heavily back into sleep as easily as that, as Andrew had known he would. They’d had a hard game the night before, the last death match that had qualified them for semifinals. Then, since it was almost vacation or since they had won or maybe just because they felt like it, they’d gone to Columbia. Neil had even let himself drink a bit, as he sometimes did now. Nicky, Kevin, and Aaron had left together in a cab from Eden’s, going straight to the airport to catch their assorted flights. The morning of Andrew’s last spring break as a Fox dawned with the house in Columbia empty but for them. With the previous night’s exertions and indulgences lying heavy in his muscles, Neil had slept for several hours more after Andrew had initially woke him. Andrew had been counting on it. It had given him plenty of time to go shopping. 

“Andrew, what is all this.” Neil tried again. 

Instead of answering, Andrew poured Neil a mug of coffee from the pot he’d been working on and went to stand in front of him, chin up. A little of the confusion relaxed off of Neil’s face for the moment. He took the coffee with a small inquisitive hum. Andrew nodded in confirmation. Neil leaned in and offered up the requested kiss, light but lingering, just lips, before leaning back and looking around pointedly. 

“ _Andrew._ ” It was becoming a little exasperated, and just a little annoying, so Andrew relented. A little. 

“It’s food, Neil.” Andrew deadpanned, glancing back the piles of groceries stacked on the counter, half in and out of their plastic bags. “Consumed at mealtimes, necessary for survival, perhaps you’ve heard of it?” 

Neil rolled his eyes a little and went to poke through the contents of one of the bags. He held up a box of lasagna noodles and a block of probably overpriced cheese. 

“Food.” he echoed back, brow crinkled a bit. “Do you even know how to cook half of this stuff?”

“Not yet.” Andrew answered coolly. “I’m sure we can figure it out.” Part of him wanted to take the words back when he saw the way Neil’s eyes flickered warmly, knowingly, at Andrew’s slip – that rare casual acknowledgement of this _whatever_ that bound them together. Andrew held Neil’s gaze, silently daring him to say something about it. Instead, Neil leaned casually against the counter, an unusually unreadable expression playing lightly on his face as his eyes returned to the piles of food. 

“You want…to learn to cook?” It was just barely a question, Andrew noted. Neil seemed to have put the pieces together well enough on his own. The real question, of course, was the one lurking underneath that one. The question that wasn’t a what, but a why. Andrew shrugged, plucked the box of noodles out of Neil’s hands, and pointed it at his throat like a particularly useless knife.

“Are you going to help or not? Bear in mind, no helping, no eating.” He said. 

Neil smiled at that, small but genuine, and accepted the box back, turning it over obediently and beginning to read through the instructions printed on the back. Andrew watched him.

The truth was that this was Wymack’s fault, not that Andrew would ever admit to it. Months ago, in December, Coach had asked Neil what he – what they – were doing over break, knowing that the other members of their group already had separate plans. Neil had offered a vague answer about maybe driving somewhere, and a promise to keep up with his training. A that, Wymack had given an exasperated sign. 

“Just try and relax, would you? Get some sleep for once in your life. Cook yourself a nice steak or something. Have some fun.” Wymack had told Neil. Neil had told him unconvincingly that he would try. It was clear that Wymack didn’t believe him, and he was right to not. They had gone on a small road trip, getting as far as Nashville before Kevin was harping on them to come back and practice, but that was all. The overheard exchange had stuck with Andrew. It nagged the back of his brain when it shouldn’t have, because it was, really, a particularly stupid hang up. It might have been stupider than some of Neil’s. But months later, as Spring break and the final month’s of Andrew’s time at Palmetto approached, he had found himself thinking about it again. 

Thinking about cooking. And Neil. (And maybe a kitchen of their own, someday, not that he was letting himself plan for the future.) Watching the way they both ate over the course of a couple of weeks had solidified the idea. 

It wasn’t that either of them were all that bad at cooking, or incapable of feeding themselves balanced diets. Between Andrew’s time in foster care and Neil’s decade on the run, they could both put a meal together without much thought. Andrew had been cooking for himself for a long time, longer than he should have been, and despite Kevin’s constant griping about his indulgences he knew a college athlete couldn’t survive on just oatmeal and ice cream. Neil’s experience was a bit more limited, with his life so often lacking basic tools like stoves, ovens, or even microwaves, but it made him the more resourceful of the two of them. 

Even so, there was a bland, ration-like quality to most things they cooked. Chicken and rice, bacon and eggs, oatmeal with fresh fruit when nothing else was manageable. It had never bothered Andrew before, and he wouldn’t say it bothered him now. But thinking about it stirred up…something. An old, long-hibernating almost-want sitting up in the back of his head. 

He figured the worst that could come of it was they burned down the house in Columbia and Nicky wouldn’t have to figure out what to do with it after graduation. And so when Andrew had woken up on the first morning of his last Spring break to an empty house and an extremely sleepy Neil, and feeling surprisingly settled in his own skin, he made his decision. Hence, the ingredients for lasagna and a few other manageable but fancier-than-usual dishes that were now stacked on the counters. 

Neil had finished reading the instructions, probably several times through, by the time he put down the box and said, “So, we’re making lasagna.” It had the tone of a conclusion, like Neil had read Andrew’s entire train of thought and was tying it up neatly. Maybe he had, Andrew thought, a little wildly. “Anything else?”

“Pad Thai. Chili.” Andrew told him with a bored look, refusing to allow any hints of indulgence to creep into his voice. 

“Lasagna, Pad Thai, and Chili.” Neil repeated pointedly, raising a brow. 

“Not together, Josten. I figured we should have more than one meal to eat this week.” Andrew said mockingly, avoiding the point, which was that all of those were things that Neil ordered most often on the occasions they got takeout or found themselves stopped to eat on the road. Well, it had made sense. If they were going to do this, they should start with things Andrew knew Neil liked. Doubtless he would end up eating more than his fair share, anyway. Runners. Plus, they were all approachable recipes; they had more ingredients than either of them normally used, but the methods all seemed simple enough. 

“Also, dark chocolate mousse.” Andrew finished. He was almost expecting a retort about sweets or his health, but Neil simply smiled at him over the rim of his mug. 

“Naturally.” Neil said. “What are we making first?”

“Lasagna. And since you slept til noon, we might as well start now.”

And so they began, Neil setting water to boil for the noodles and Andrew putting the unneeded groceries away for later. To Neil’s dismay, Andrew hadn’t even bought pre-made sauce. By the time they were halfway through browning the onions and garlic, Andrew was grumbling, sweating a little over the heat of the stove but refusing to admit that maybe homemade sauce hadn’t been worth it. But that didn’t mean that the effort itself wasn’t…nice, in a way. The kitchen filled with the smell of warm tomatoes, basil, and browning meat. At some point Neil turned the afternoon into an almost embarrassing cliché by switching on the radio, choosing something soft and warbly that probably came from halfway across the state judging by the crackle, holding the cheese hostage until Andrew stopped trying to turn it off. And that, surprisingly, was nice, too. Nicer still was chasing the sweet tang of tomato sauce on Neil’s tongue when he tested a spoonful of sauce; pushing him up against the counter to pass time while the beef finished cooking; both of them struggling to spread the cheese mixture onto the wet layers of noodles; catching Neil’s easy laughter in his mouth. 

They smoked on the back step while the lasagna baked, and ate it on the couch beneath a shared blanket. It was maybe the most absurdly domestic day they had spent together yet, but Andrew couldn’t find it in himself to hate it just then, and he could tell Neil didn’t either. Andrew was surprised by how well the dish had turned out, although the recipe had been straightforward enough. It was warm, rich, and perfectly filling, and he begrudgingly thought he could see why it was a favorite of Neil’s. They set their plates on a nearby table and Neil slid himself closer to Andrew, holding his gaze until Andrew nodded and allowed him to lean against him, head resting lightly on his shoulder. 

“Man, I can’t believe I used to think microwave pasta was _good._ ” Neil said, and Andrew couldn’t see his face but could hear the smile in his voice. 

“You never did have good taste.” Andrew said, stretching his legs out to rest his feet on the table next to the plates, and prodding Neil’s shoulder until he got the hint and resettled with his head on Andrew’s lap. He was mostly changing the subject, because today had been a good day and delving into either of their childhoods, however innocently, seemed like a good way to ruin it fast.

“Hey, don’t knock my tastes, Minyard. You’re one of them.” 

Andrew regretted the subject change instantly, but he managed to mostly hide his grimace, and Neil had the good grace not to say anything more. He looked down at Neil with his most unimpressed, impassive expression, though he guessed the angle mostly ruined the effect. Neil just smiled. He looked lazy and relaxed. He looked filled-in, somehow, a negative image of the strange, brittle creature Andrew had thought he’d imagined those few years ago. Or maybe it was the other way around – maybe he’d been a negative then, and Andrew was only now seeing the real image.

 _Beautiful his mind supplied_ , unbidden. _He’s beautiful._ Andrew found himself suddenly desperate to lean in and kiss his stupid (beautiful) face, to do something that would leave bruises, but it felt too much an admission after Neil’s last comment. Instead, he ran a hand through Neil’s hair once, then twice more for good measure. He gave one curl a brief, hard tug, and said

“Dessert.”

An unexpected slyness came over Neil’s face. 

“Me, or the mousse?” He asked mischievously, and really, Andrew should have known that was coming by now. Andrew shoved Neil off of his lap.

“The mousse, idiot.” Andrew said as despairingly as he could, which probably wasn’t very by the way his treacherous heartbeat had picked up at Neil’s sly smile. Neil simply nodded, got up, and followed him into the kitchen. 

The mousse, as Andrew had thought it might be, turned out to be more tricky than the lasagna. He hadn’t realized they’d needed to chill the bowl, then Neil burnt the chocolate, and the first batch they actually managed to finish collapsed when they tried to fold everything together and they were left with a soupy chocolate mess. Luckily, Andrew had foreseen this possibility and had bought enough ingredients to make the recipe several times. They tried again. 

There was almost no sense of frustration, Andrew was surprised to find. No hidden layers of hurt unwrapped by this particular failure, nothing to tie it back to for either of them. It was just a dessert, and a tricky one at that. It was new for both of them, and there was nothing to be revealed by fucking up at it other than the way Neil’s eyes practically glittered when Andrew leaned in to suck an errant glob of chocolate off his cheek; the way Neil’s tongue poked ridiculously out of his mouth in concentration as he melted the second batch of chocolate on their jerry-rigged double boiler. They tried, they got it wrong, they tried again, and neither of them were left hurting for it.

It was nice, for something to be so simple, for once.

The second batch, however, was still a bit runnier than it should have been and just a touch grainy. Andrew frowned at it. They technically had enough ingredients to try again, but he had hoped they might be able to make some more later in the week if they felt like it. He poked at the chilled bowl. 

“It’s still not right.” Andrew said. “It should be smoother.” He found his resolve that this failure didn’t matter slipping a little. It was just food of course, but there was a tiny, idiotic part of his brain that was taking far too much delight in whispering _ruined._ Andrew firmly ignored it. Mostly. Neil looked at him with a considering expression on his face, then turned resolutely back to the mousse, stuck a spoon in, and shoveled a small bite into his mouth.

Andrew watched impassively as Neil’s expression went from serious, to confused, to something bordering on delight. He barely swallowed before grinning widely. 

“It’s good.” He said, sounding surprised. Andrew narrowed his eyes suspiciously. 

“You don’t even like sweets.” he accused.

“It’s not actually that sweet.” Neil said, and true, Andrew had chosen the darkest chocolate that seemed likely to work in the recipe. Maybe that was what had gone wrong. Just to be annoying, he stole the spoon out of Neil’s hand and put the remaining bite into his own mouth. He frowned more deeply.

“It’s soupy and the texture’s off.” he announced.

“I still think it’s good.” said Neil.

“I thought you were supposed to be the perfectionist, Junkie.” Andrew said.

“You’re one to talk, Shut-out.” 

It was a nickname Neil had bestowed on him in his third year, after a small string of games that Andrew had called ‘in need of making interesting’ and Neil had called ‘fucking spectacular, Andrew.’ Not that Andrew had been counting. He only let Neil get away with it once in a great while, but this time he did, unfortunately, have a point. 

“Have you ever even had mousse before?” Andrew asked, and wasn’t surprised when Neil shook his head no. “Then you don’t know what you’re talking about.” Andrew told him, refusing to hear the stubbornness in his voice that sounded so much like Neil’s own. Neil just shrugged and stole the spoon back, taking another bite of runny mousse with a thoughtful expression on his face.

“You know, just because it didn’t turn out how we thought it would, doesn’t mean it’s not worth keeping.” he said. Andrew eyed him warily, spine prickling despite the heat of the room. Neil’s blue eyes were wide and cautiously hopeful, and it made Andrew’s stomach squirm to be looked at like that, still. 

“Still taking about dessert?” he asked coolly. Neil smiled, but instead of responding hopped himself up on the counter, and Andrew could tell he was settling in. “What, Neil?” 

“Why cooking? You didn’t really answer, before.” Neil said.

“I didn’t want to eat your shitty rice and beans all week” ( _or for the rest of our lives._ ) 

“That’s half an answer.” Neil told him, and when had he gotten so good at reading between all of Andrew’s lines? “What’s the rest? Why now?”

Andrew looked at him, considering. Neil didn’t rush him. They were both used to these kinds of silences. – moments while thoughts assembled themselves into words, then sentences, like settling blocks. As he looked at Neil, Andrew thought he looked older. Not tired or aged, really, but no longer any part a child. He looked settled into his own skin, sure in the way he looked at the world where once there had been only uncertainty and ill-disguised fear. He was relaxed back against the cabinets, turning the spoon over in his fingers like a blade, and the dim light of the kitchen at dusk seemed to make him softly glow. It wasn’t permanent, but it was remarkable how much more commonplace this calm expression had become over the last few years. Andrew never mentioned it, mostly because he didn’t want to hear Neil say that the same thing had been slowly, ever so slowly, happening to him as well. 

He thought about the stack of books he had just begun to pick his way through again. He thought about Neil going for lazy runs on Saturdays just to feel his muscles stretch, and hanging out with the other Foxes on weekends. He thought of him and Neil learning Russian together, not because they needed it to survive, but so that they would have something to call just their own. He thought about living, really living. Neither of them were very good at it yet, but Neil was getting better. Andrew thought he was ready to try a little harder, too. 

“I don’t want us to just get by.” Andrew said at last, hating the way it sounded too vulnerable, too much like a confession, but finding no other words that fit. He struggled onward.

“We both know how to survive. But if we are going to do this-“ the reminder of his impending graduation hung in the air between them like an ugly spell. He took a breath, his words like steel. “I just barely trust you not to get yourself killed somehow in my absence. If we are going to do this, I won’t have you just survive it. You have to actually live, Neil.” His voice was harsh, but Neil’s eyes only softened. 

“So do you.” Neil said gently, as always reading right through him. It took Andrew a moment to find his voice again, to find words that weren’t reflexively dipped in blood.

“So do I.” He agreed at last. 

Neil smiled like the damn sun coming out. He hopped down off the counter and looked down at the mousse thoughtfully. 

“You know, I bet if we put this in the freezer for a few hours, it would turn into pretty good ice cream.” Neil said. Huh.

“Not a bad idea, Josten.” 

“I know, I know. Smart and pretty, what are you going to do with me?” 

_What am I going to do without you?_

But something that had been turning frustrated circles in Andrew’s chest finally settled, and he made up his mind. If Neil could hear him bring up his looming graduation and still find it in him to tease, things were going to be all right. Whatever this was, it would survive. No, more than that. It would live. 

Andrew scooped up the bowl, covered it, and popped it in the freezer before turning back to Neil. 

“What am I going to do with you?” He echoed, and relished in Neil’s involuntary shiver. Andrew crowded him against the counter and set about answering the question without any unnecessary words. 

_As much as I can._ His lips and his tongue and his hands said. _As much as I know how to give you._ He took Neil apart as thoroughly as he knew how, let Neil do so in return as much as either of them dared, each touch and kiss a bruising promise of _live, live_ and _I’m not letting go of you._ Neil was a sparking conduit against him, bright electric and so unapologetically _alive_ that Andrew felt it like an ache in his chest. He kissed Neil a little harder, just to hear the sounds he would make (beautiful, wrecked, _living._ )

The dishes could wait.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! <3
> 
> yell at me on tumblr @ a-case-for-wonder


End file.
